Cells
by Ari Vela
Summary: Her own state of mind was at odds. It was like her left brain was fighting a painfully pointless battle with the right. It was a war that dug to a molecular level. Every one of her cells felt like it was being burned alive.
1. Cells

**AN: This is an idea I've had since last Friday's episode. After this was wrestling with sleep for dominance, this finally won. So, I'm up at 3 a.m. writing this. Below you will find a fluffy piece of smut that will be completely AU by next Friday, but it picks up right after episode 4 this season. Rated M for obvious reasons. Again, this is just a piece of smutty fluff, with minimal angst and consequentially thinking. Probably not my best, but I try. I mean this to be a one-shot, but may continue it, if you guys like it. So, hit that button. Reviews are love.**

**-Ari**

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><p><em>No first of spring, no song to sing. In fact, here's just another ordinary day...<em>

Olivia rolled her eyes at Stevie crooning on her earphones. She hadn't had an ordinary day in... Ever.

Her ass had been glued to her office chair for the past seven hours. Her fingers crackled with an impatient anxiety, her foot bounced with fevered expectation.

After spending most of her day sitting in on interrogations and briefings with Broyles about new information about these new shapeshifters, v. 2, she walked back to her desk as quickly as possible without actually running. It had been an hour before she realized that everyone had gone for the day, filing out around her as her eyes stayed adhered to the screen. But she couldn't leave, her excruciating curiosity was keeping her planted at her desk. She had dug some headphones buried in a desk drawer and jammed them into her ears. Then, she set her internet radio to a light mix station, unobtrusive and inoffensive, to help her ignore the fact that she was alone in the office on a Friday night. Every light was killed except her lone desk lamp.

She started running through every file, every case, every Google search that might give her a clue how the man claiming to be Walter's son could possibly exist. She had been studying DNA anomalies alone for the past two hours, from human "chimaeras" to cases of two unrelated people having similar DNA sequences. But nothing fit. Besides the 99.7 percent genetic probability that the man was, in fact, Walter's son, this man, Peter, knew way too much about her and the Fringe team. And the way he looked at her disturbed her. It both perplexed her and inspired feelings of inadequacy all at the same time. Why was he so disappointed in her? And why did she care?

_I just called to say I love you..._

She yanked the buds out of her ears with an exasperated scoff. Her eyes were burning, her back ached. And "love" was the last subject she wanted to think about. The feelings that welled up in her eyes and clogged her throat when hearing him speak had to have another explanation. Pity, fear, severe empathy for being an outcast. Anything else had to explain this gut-wrenching impasse.

Despite her current and very real anxieties, a part of her that had been screaming in deprivation at seeing this man in her dreams somehow seemed quieted after whatever force spit him into existence in this universe. Almost every part of her was weary of the man, maybe even frightened about the possibilities that he dragged here with him. But somewhere in the back of her mind, she felt infinitesimally calmer. Pacified, at seeing his face, whole and real in front of her. Her own state of mind was at odds. It was like her left brain was fighting a painfully pointless battle with the right. It was a war that dug to a molecular level. Every one of her cells felt like it was being burned alive.

She slammed the laptop shut and cradled her face in her hands, frustration still pulsing through every inch of her body. She needed to go home, to sleep. Even that didn't seem tempting, despite the fact that midnight was approaching unapologetically. Even simple things didn't satisfy her lately. She always wanted or needed more of something. She felt wholly unfulfilled, relentlessly so.

She remembered Peter crammed up in one of the department's interrogation rooms, with nothing but a cot, a table, and his genius IQ to pacify himself. The thought of Peter being alone in the same building as Olivia made her skin crawl with anticipation and apprehension.

She shoved her laptop into its leather house and crammed her suit jacket onto the crook of her elbow before setting off down the hallway, her heeled footfalls echoing loudly in the empty corridor.

She stopped in front of the interrogation room, fingering the key card impatiently in her hand. Peter was probably sleeping on the other side of the door. Although if she knew him, he was as wide awake and frustrated as she was.

_But you don't know him, _she reminded herself. It was this dichotomous familiarity that made her swipe her card and push the door open. Not completely surprised, she found him sitting on the corner of the makeshift bed they had set up in the corner of his improvised holding cell. Elbows on his knees, hands dangling carelessly between his legs. Maybe he heard her footsteps. Nevermind that the door was soundproof.

He lifted his head slowly when he heard the door clang open. She tossed her bag onto the table and stood before him, arms crossed and brow furrowed.

"You still here?" he asked.

Her eyebrows abandoned their angry pretense as they retreated towards her hairline. She felt tired and vulnerable. She didn't even have the strength to deny to herself the eruption of satisfaction somewhere below her stomach she felt when hearing his tired, husky voice.

"Why am I not surprised?" He said with a sad, crooked smile.

"Why aren't you?" she asked, almost pleading. Peter raised his eyebrows, not expecting anything from this Olivia but a hard exterior and the business end of a gun. They stared at each other, his face passive, hers almost painfully expectant.

"I'm not sure I have a simple answer to that," he said finally.

"I already know what you claim. You were a part of our team in some alternate timeline, that the machine ejected you from our existence, and you don't know why you're still here."

"Something like that," he said, again, with a sad smile.

"I'm asking what you... what you claim to be... what were you to me?" Olivia felt breathless as she finally asked what had been eating at her since hearing about Peter's expulsion from nowhere into Reiden Lake. Peter looked up at her. Olivia had tightened her folded arms around her, almost hugging herself. She was looking for answers about herself from a stranger. She felt naked, almost like she was faltering when he smiled.

"We were together. First, as partners and friends. Then, as something more," he said. "I loved you."

They were staring at each other again. Something seemed to be working behind Olivia's eyes. Peter found himself watching with a morose fascination.

"I like to tell myself that you loved me, too," he said with a insincere chuckle.

"If that's true, then why do you always seem disappointed when I'm in the room?"

"You're different. You seem distracted and glum. You're all business when you're in front of me. And it's hard seeing nothing but a tough shell of a person you once shared intimate moments with. We talked about everything, 'Livia," he said. Olivia was startled when he said her name. A part of her, a huge part, wanted to beg him to say it again. She looked at him, wide-eyed and deprived.

"That's another thing..." he said as he stood, still firmly holding her gaze, testing how open this new hole in her armor would prove to be. He approached her slowly until his body was within inches of her own.

She looked up at him, silent but resolute. She was embarrassingly aware at how his eyes combed her body, but she couldn't find it in herself to push him away.

"I've never seen you wear your hair down at work," he said, tucking loose strands behind her ear. He was so close, it was painful. With the same hand, he slid his fingers behind her neck and pulled her face close to his. He pulled her into a gently intense kiss, his tongue sliding in as she opened her mouth for him. She felt weak-kneed, a spark traveling through her veins, as his tongue slid around hers as his hand wound its way into her hair.

She put her hands on his chest and pushed until they broke apart.

"What are you doing?" she asked in a half-hearted protest. He looked at her incredulously.

"Liv, I've got nothing to lose," he said, one hand still in her hair, the other squeezing her hip.

The gap closed again, the kiss more urgent. Fisting his shirt, Olivia felt a sudden and raging erection press into her belly as he pulled her impossibly close.

"Oh my god," she moaned, as Peter's lips left hers and she felt his tongue trail down her neck. Her abdomen lurched in pleasure. "Peter..."

He moaned at the sound of his name, grabbing her cheeks and pressing his hips into hers.

"Let me show you," he said desperately.

"Peter, please," she breathed into his ear.

With that, he grabbed her hair and craned her neck as he obsessively sucked and licked her skin. With his other hand, he grabbed the collar of her white button-down and yanked hard until he heard several buttons clatter to the floor and tossed the useless garment aside. He heard her gasp and felt a savage satisfaction as he brought her mouth to his again and kissed her fervently, almost desperately. He was going to fuck her like she'd never been fucked before. If possible, his erection throbbed even more painfully through two layers of clothing as he thought about bending her over the table and ramming her until he couldn't feel anything anymore. He wanted feel his dick sliding in and out of her tight, wet folds until she exploded around him. He wanted her to orgasm four times before he spilled inside of her. He'd needed this, needed her so bad after dropping back into existence.

After she pulled his shirt over his head, he caught her chin in his hand and looked at her with a hard and hungry stare.

"Tell me you want me," he said.

"I want you," she breathed, eyes wide and reckless.

"Tell me how much," he said, squeezing her chin and moving his mouth closer to hers. "I need to hear it."

"I've been dreaming about it," she said. "If you fuck me for three whole days, I'll still want more."

He closed his lips around hers again, her tongue setting a maddening pace that he was dying to match with their hips. He slid a hand under her pants and felt her lust-soaked underwear. He groaned as he pushed them aside and stroked her bare clit. He felt no hair as he massaged her; he pictured her shaving in anticipation of their intimate encounter.

"Fuck, 'Livia," he said. With skilled fingers, she had his jeans undone and around his ankles. He slid his hand out and unhooked her dress pants, shoving them down impatiently. Feeling the skin of her legs on his way, he grabbed her ass under her lacy hipsters and pushed his relentless hard-on into her wet panties. With one hand, he unhooked her matching bra and slid it down her arms before tossing it aside. He stroked her nipple with his thumb and squeezed her breast as she moaned under his kiss.

"Fuck me," she moaned again. "Please."

He pushed her against the concrete wall as he stooped to gather her nipple in his mouth. He softly closed his teeth around it as he flicked his tongue over the tip. She almost screamed, the sound of her penetrated his skin and agitated his need. As she slid his boxers down his thighs, he tore the remainder of her underwear from her hips.

As he wrapped his hands around her thighs, she put her arms on his shoulders as he lifted her and pinned her against the wall. She could feel his tip poised at her entrance as she wrapped her legs around his lower back. As he penetrated her, he felt her stretch around him to accommodate his size. He buried himself to the hilt as she sighed his name loudly. He slowly pulled out, then filled her again, her moisture sliding across his skin digging deep. His pace was slow and measured and she whimpered for more.

"You're torturing me," she groaned.

With a surge of lust, he slammed into her, making her scream. His stone-hard member slid in easily each time as she glided across his skin. He quickened his pace, pleasure building in both of them with each thrust.

"Oh my god... oh my god..." Olivia mumbled as the beginnings of an orgasm pooled in her belly.

"Peter!" she screamed as she began to spasm around his member.

"Come for me again," he grunted into her ear, his pace frenzied and hard. He could practically feel it mounting again as he drove harder and harder into her. She yelped as another wave of pleasure blinded her.

He pulled her off the wall and laid her on the table, still inside her and completely disregarding the bed another five feet away. She opened her eyes, pupils dilated to the point that her irises was almost invisible. He began to piston into her, building his pace again until it was at a fever pitch. He could feel his surge threatening to explode into oblivion as he hungrily watched her breasts bouncing and heard her fractured moans and heavy breathing.

He flattened himself against her, kissing her obscenely. She moaned as his hips continued to roll waves of pleasure into her, another orgasm building as he slammed into her wildly.

"Peter, I'm so close..." she whispered against his lips.

He gripped her tightly as he thrusted with an increased fury and need. He could hear and feel her climax approaching. She moaned loudly as he swallowed her orgasm. He groaned against her as he matched her, spilling his hot seed inside of her, riding that last wave with her.

After regaining his breath, his slid off of her and onto his side. After grabbing her hip, he pulled her over until she was facing him.

"I know this makes no sense to you," he said, tucking her sex-mussed hair behind her ear. "But I missed you."

Before she could respond, he pulled her into a tight embrace, hugging her to his chest, touching her everywhere he could. Olivia smiled into his shoulder, and let him hold her for hours.

She thought vaguely, as she left him sad-faced and naked in the interrogation room to go home to shower and change, the beginnings of a new kind of anxiety replace her old frustrations.


	2. Abandon

**AN: Thanks a lot for the reviews. Feedback is crack, so thanks for feeding my unhealthy need to write my own scenario for this season. I had a few ideas for this story, but decided to keep it current with the shape-shifters. This chapter has no sexy Polivia action, but more is on the way. This fic started with smut, and will end in smut. Fear not. I'm just trying to create a little drama here. Bear with me. I'm writing the next chapter as we speak. It will probably end with a third chapter. Hope you enjoy.  
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**Reviews are love,  
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**-Ari**

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><p><strong>p<strong>

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><p><strong>O<strong>

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><p>Peter paced around the interrogation room, subjecting the metal table to his frustrated wrath by kicking its legs every other passing. His toes were bruised and possibly broken by the fifty-third punt, but he wasn't paying attention to his nerve endings. He felt like the table was mocking him, sitting there all stoic and inanimate, while he was left to boil in his own agitated vexation in a twelve-by-twelve FBI sweat box.<p>

He kicked it again; it answered with a bone-crushing thunk.

He sat on the edge of the abused table, dropping his head to his hands and muffling a frightening roar.

Olivia had left him in this room, after fucking his brains out during the best round of wall- and table-sex he'd ever had the opportunity to experience, with a promise to return to work out the details of how to cope with this whole clusterfuck.

"I just need a shower, and to wrap my mind around it," she had said, with a smile and a reassuring hand on his cheek. "Get some sleep. I'll be back soon."

He had been in survivor mode; he had been willing to say anything to anyone just to make it to the next day. Empathy was the last thing on his emotional palette at the moment.

But Olivia had waltzed in with her disarming vulnerability and those fucking huge green eyes blown open wide like a little kid needing answers after falling down a well. She gave him a window, and he jumped. Hell, he was happy just to touch her again. This penetrating sense of abandonment had rattled all the way to his bones. It ached more than his currently throbbing toes, but he had to keep his head on straight to make it out of this situation without becoming a nonexistent residue on the interrogation room floor. She had yet to return for at least two days at this point. He kept track by the meals the junior agents shuffled in. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day. Mostly cereal, ramen noodles, and fast food. He tried to ask them what was going on, but they just shrugged. The only information he managed to squeeze out of them was that on the weekends, senior agents were always on call.

No emergencies, no opportunity for chess moves. No Olivia.

He was angry and unfathomably disappointed. He thought he'd finally broken through this time barrier with at least one person that meant something. He thought the hours they had spent talking, Peter about what was real before the machine blasted him from existence and Olivia about what was real after, was some kind of miraculous advance in patching this time warp. She even managed to share some fears and admit to some vulnerabilities. For Olivia, Peter knew that was huge. Especially this emotionally capable, all-business, not-taking-shit-from-anybody Olivia. She had even smiled, laughed once or twice. And God, it felt good.

But she had not come back. Something was seriously amiss. Abysmally out of order. Fucked up timeline or no, he just couldn't believe she would let him sit here in this mental torture chamber with nothing but this table and erection-inducing thoughts of their last encounter as his only companions.

And if she could, this Olivia was a seriously twisted individual. He tried to focus his sex-wrung mind on his next step in this political dance and mild vengeance, but all he could see was Olivia's smile. And her hugely dilated pupils while her naked body writhed in sweat on the metal table under him as he pounded her...

Peter jerked his head out of his pitiful reverie as the door clanged open. He guessed that lunch must be on the way, but had to muster all of his self-control not to jump out of his skin when he saw Broyles stride in, flanked by a nail-biting Walter and a shell-shocked Astrid.

"Can you hack our systems?" Broyles said flaccidly, ignoring the stupid look of surprise on Peter's face and the social obligation of a "hello."

"Yes," Peter said, almost as a question. Was it "pointless questions" day?

"Then quit looking sorry for yourself and follow me," Broyles continued in what Peter was sure would be an intimidating monotone to anyone else. "We need your help tracking these shape shifters, and unfortunately for me, none of my techs seem to be able to kick their way into back doors as quickly as you. They seem to be after some highly classified information about the Fringe division-"

"They?" Peter asked, before remembering that he'd already run diagnostics on this new breed for Broyles. "I already told you, once they overcome their translucent skin issue, they'll be impossible to detect unless you carve them open. Whoever is controlling them must have disabled their tracking devices, if you're talking to me again-"

"I don't care," Broyles interjected impatiently. "We have intelligence that more are on their way and they have one of my best agents. I shouldn't have to spell out how bad this situation is."

Peter's stomach fell to his feet.

"Which agent?

"Dunham."

Peter was on his feet and marching out the door, disregarding any pretense of control or hierarchy.

"I need a computer." Peter said.

_And a fucking miracle..._

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><p>As they walked down what felt like an endless hallway to Peter, Broyles briefed him on what they had found early Saturday morning. Walter had mumbled something unintelligible and slipped away to his Harvard lab, escorted by Astrid.<p>

"Agent Lee decided to come into the office early Saturday to dig into the shape-shifter case. He found blood at the entrance of the building. Dr. Bishop ran tests on the blood, and it's a match to Agent Dunham. The blood had not degraded to any significant degree, meaning it hasn't been there very long."

"How much blood?" Peter asked. He throat felt like it had been raped by a thousand cotton balls.

"Enough for dire speculations," Broyles said cryptically. Peter shook his head imperceptibly; he couldn't imagine Olivia dead.

"How do you know it was shape-shifters?"

"We found the bodies of two security personnel who guard the building's perimeter," Broyles said. "They looked exactly like prior victims. We believe one of them attempted to kill Agent Dunham to gain access to our files and to infiltrate the department under the guise of being a top-ranking agent. The presence of blood suggest that something went wrong. They usually kill quietly, if they can. Dunham's phone was found also, but her issued vehicle was taken-"

Peter stopped dead and whipped around so fast that Broyles instinctually put a war-weary hand on the hilt of his gun.

"Does it have an onboard navigation system?" He asked, unable to mask the rising hope lacing his words together.

"It does."

"I need a VIN and a serial number and manufacturer for the navigation system in that car," Peter said, running the rest of the way to the nearest computer.

"It's a sport utility vehicle," Broyles said baldly, he flagged down a junior agent to gather the information Peter required.

It took Peter all of five minutes to find a signal, after hacking the satellite system used to direct the navigation device.

"I'm getting something about a half mile southeast of the hospital," Peter announced to Broyles, who already had his governtment-issued cell phone out and dialed.

"It looks like it's coming from Southampton Street, most likely an abandoned warehouse, based on the area," Broyles said in his most official tone, his eyes on the pulsing dot on the screen. "I'm moving in now. I want to see that this is taken care of personally. I'll need backup."

Broyles retrieved the same junior agent that had brought the navigation system information and sat her down in front of the computer, pulling a desk phone towards her.

"You will stay in front of this screen, watching this red dot. If it moves at all, you call my direct line. Clear?"

The agent nodded.

"And keep an eye on him," he said, pointing at Peter and already on his way out the door.

"I'm coming," Peter chased after him.

"Like hell you are," Broyles said, not stopping his gait down the hallway. "You are to stay in this building until we know what or who the hell you are."

"You wouldn't have anything if it weren't for me," Peter said. "I know more about shape-shifters than this whole team combined. I can help you."

Broyles afforded Peter a look from the corner of his eye.

"Fine," he said. "But if you try anything funny like that intercom gag, I'm going to shoot you."

"You can't afford to kill me," Peter said confidently.

"I didn't say I would shoot to kill. But you don't need your kneecaps to answer questions," Broyles said, unimpressed.

They got into Broyles' SUV without another word.

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><p>In a trip that should have taken 20 minutes, both men were standing outside of an abandoned warehouse somewhere outside the heart of the city in a mere five rotations. Broyles brandished a spare pistol at Peter.<p>

"Take this," Broyles said. "And stay in sight."

Broyles and Peter slunk around the perimeter of the building, eyes intensely focused and guns aimed in a hard plane in front of them. Olivia's vehicle lay abandoned in the cracked pavement in front of the building. As they made their way around the warehouse, an enormous portable storage pod emerged into their plane of sight. It rested on sporadically dead grass behind the building. A leaden shudder seemed to grip the pod.

"You look around and in the storage locker," Broyles told Peter. "Once you've cleared it, find me in the warehouse. Backup should be a few minutes behind us."

After silencing his phone, Broyles disappeared into a rear entry of the warehouse, slipping in soundlessly.

With his borrowed gun outstretched in front of his face, Peter approached the pod and circled it. Behind it, he found a stack of old tires in a field of useless objects cast from their usual trappings, much like him. Cans, old shoes, bent car tags. All cast out of their owner's lives, like they never existed...

He began to proceed to the locker's opening on the other end when he heard a rustling, the sound shaking his predator-like search. He had the faintest idea that the rustling was coming from inside the stack of tires.

Before he could approach the stack, a metallic screech rung from inside the pod. Peter stalked to the door, the handle had been jury rigged shut with a MacGyver-esque locking mechanism, a rusty metal chain with several bent metal rods and nails mending it shut. Just as he reached out a hand to touch the makeshift bond, the door rattled with a frenzied intensity, like a feral cat trying to claw its way out of an ice box.

"Olivia?" Peter yelled at the door. The rattling stopped.

"Hold on!" he said, fumbling with the interlinking rods. After several seconds of cussing and yanking, he pulled the chain free. The door burst open; all Peter saw was an angry face that didn't belong to his quarry before being knocked back at least 20 feet, dropping his gun.

The face belonged to an Asian woman, her long black hair fell in Peter's face as she squeezed his neck in what felt like a steroid-enhanced vice grip. Her knees pinned his shoulders to the ground; she weighed more than seven bodybuilders.

"Where is she?" she growled into his face, her breath had the metallic smell of blood.

"I... don't..." Peter choked.

"WHERE IS SHE!" the Asian woman screeched, her nose millimeters from Peter's. "Who are you?"

Peter responded with a blue face and an agonizing rasp, she had tightened her grip around his throat, his bones and tendons like craft sticks and thread under her impossibly strong hand.

A gun shot sliced through the still air. Peter got a brief glimpse of the bullet hole in the woman's forehead before she slumped sideways off of him. He kicked her away as he scrambled to his knees, looking for the origin of his saving grace.

Olivia stood at the corner of the shape-shifter's makeshift cage, Peter's gun dangling in her hand by her side. Her shirt was ripped open, sleeves torn, her pants dirty. She stared at him, filth covering her pale face, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth and staining her entire body. Peter could see several bruises on the patches of skin revealed by her battle-ragged clothes. Her eyes were alight as she bored into him.

"Olivia..."

She wiped the blood from her mouth with back the hand holding the gun, as hurried footsteps padded their way across the parched grass towards them. Several field agents appeared, led by Broyles.

"Dunham," he stopped by Olivia's side, his voice betraying the first hint of emotion. He looked at the dead woman at Peter's feet.

"That's your shape-shifter," Olivia said, her voice blank and barely audible. "I had to shoot her. She was killing Peter."

"Bag that body and take it to Dr. Bishop's lab," Broyles told the agents crowded around the body and Peter. "Dunham, come with me. I'll take your statement on the way to the hospital."

"I don't want to go the hospital," Olivia said in the same monotone. "I'm fine."

"Dunham, you look like you just crawled out of a wood chipper," Broyles said impatiently. "I'm having a paramedic have a look at you."

Olivia looked as if she didn't have the energy to protest as Broyles radioed for an EMT. Her eyes were still on Peter as the agents stuffed the shape-shifter into a bag and carted it off to a government vehicle somewhere out of sight. Her expression was inscrutable. Peter wanted to run to her, to wrap her up in a blanket and carry her home. But a weird apprehension had snaked around his legs and kept him planted. Broyles would probably shoot him if he saw Peter running off with an injured Olivia in his arms.

Broyles steered Olivia towards the fleet of FBI vehicles, one hand clamped firmly around her forearm. Peter shuffled behind the remaining agents, a heavy heart slipping into his stomach as he saw Olivia limp in front of them as Broyles led her to safe confines once again.


	3. Penumbra

**AN: Ok, so this chapter ended up being a lot longer than I thought it would be, and I think the final scene with Peter and Olivia deserves its own chapter, so here's a continuation. I can guarantee this ends with a fourth chapter, and an awesome reward for the patient smut-lovers out there. The last chapter will be Olivia's POV, since the last two have been Peter's. I try not to be predictable, but I think you can see where I'm going with this.**

** Last chapter coming soon. I promise.**

**-Ari**

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><p>The obstinate ardor in Olivia's eyes seemed to die somewhere between the abandoned warehouse and the FBI building in the heart of Boston.<p>

The medic had apprehensively declared Olivia clear to go home, more at the behest of Olivia's confidence in her health than his own. He had discovered a large laceration gouged into her scalp under layers of blood-matted blonde hair, several deep scratches along her abdomen and arms, a sprained ankle and a string of patterned dark bruises and cuts around her neck that suggested the use of a ligature. He also pointed out what looked like the remains of adhesive tape on her neck; Broyles looked at her darkly.

"It looks like someone dragged you behind a truck by your neck," the EMT said to Olivia, a little bitterly after letting her hair fall from his hands. He didn't seem keen to let a torture victim skip back home. "But, I can't put her into the ambulance without her permission. She seems lucid enough to make that decision. So, I'll let you take it from here, Agent Broyles."

"I would have someone check in on her frequently," the EMT muttered to Broyles before shuffling off, taking his equipment bag with him. He had cleaned several of Olivia's deeper injuries and wrapped her ankle. He had to peel back Olivia's top to address her wounds, and she seemed impatient to wrap what was left of her suit jacket back around her for the sake of modesty.

"I'll go back to headquarters for a statement," Olivia said. "Then I'd like to go home."

"Fine," Broyles said, his jaw tight. "But you're to take a paid leave until you can walk without limping." He stalked off, ordering another agent to get Olivia's car back to the FBI. Olivia's face betrayed a shadow of obstinance, but she couldn't muster the chutzpah to counter Broyles demand.

Strapped in to the front seat of Broyles' vehicle, she had pulled her knees up to her chest and rested her blackened forehead on the window. Olivia hadn't looked at Peter since shooting his would-be murderer. More than anything, he just wanted to hear her tell him she'd be okay. He wouldn't believe it until he heard her tell him personally.

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><p>"I was walking out of the building early Saturday morning, after getting caught up in some research about a case. About three seconds after walking outside, the shape-shifter attacked me. I was knocked backwards, and my head hit a concrete step, and as far as I know, I was knocked unconscious," Olivia droned. She hated playing the witness.<p>

"That's where we found the blood. There was a pool on the step, and what I assumed were drag marks across the back parking lot," Broyles told her. "Dunham, do you have any idea how much blood you lost?"

"I would have no way of knowing that, sir," she responded flaccidly. "I 'woke up,' so to speak, as she was dragging me by my hair. She bound me rather inadequately and threw me in the backseat of my vehicle. I assume she was trying not to be seen and was in a hurry. She blindfolded me and took my gun, and we drove for what felt like 20 minutes. I managed to slip one leg out of my restraints while she drove. I couldn't do more, or she might have stopped and adjusted my ties."

A junior agent wrote feverishly as Olivia chanted on. Broyles dragged them all back to an interrogation room to take Olivia's statement after arriving at headquarters from the scene; he wasn't one to ignore protocol in favor of hurt feelings.

Broyles would interrupt her occasionally with questions. He had Peter sit in on the brief, so he could explain his short involvement in the whole gory tale, if needed.

"When we stopped, she opened my door. When I was upright, I kicked out and hit something. I assume it was her. I started running, trying to pull my hands out and pull down my blindfold. Unfortunately, they're extremely fast and I didn't get very far," Olivia faltered slightly. The whole room seemed to contract around her. "As she dragged me again, my blindfold slipped. I saw her face and it was the same shape-shifter that had abducted Dr. Truss. She got me inside what I know now is an abandoned warehouse that belonged to a medical supply three years ago. She bound me to a metal pole and started drilling me with questions: things about my past, what does Fringe know about the shifters, where my family lived, specific questions about old cases. I either answered vaguely, or not at all. Obviously, that made her angry," she said, indicating her pitiful state with a weary hand.

"Is that where those gashes on your arms and abdomen came from?" Broyles interjected, a bite in his words.

"Yes. She dragged a hunting knife across my skin every time I gave an answer she disliked. I assume she needed more information about me before killing me so that she could pull off the disguise for a long period of time," Olivia said, her voice still disconcertingly blank. "She also tried holding my head underwater and pressure points, among other methods," Olivia subconsciously rubbed her bruised neck. "Finally, she got fed up and taped a plastic bag around my neck. It was a clear bag, so I saw her take my laptop and turn her back. There must have been a hole somewhere in the bag, because I managed to suck part of it in my mouth and rip a larger hole with my teeth to breathe slightly better. The pole was square and had a jagged edge, so I was able to drag the ropes around my hands across the edge. It almost worked like a serrated knife. It took a minute, but once it cut through the first rope, I was able to loosen the bind and free my hands."

"And what was she doing while you did this?" Broyles asked.

"She had her back turned. I back up all my files on a hard drive at my desk, but I leave current case files on the desktop. She must have found something she was looking for, because she didn't turn to look at me while I freed myself. She must have heard me moving around, because she would mutter things like, 'stop making noise and die already.' I tried to make gasping noises so that she would think I was suffocating under the bag. After my hands were free, I bent down and untied my feet and ripped the bag from my head. I lunged at my gun. She had set it beside her while she looked through my computer. I managed to secure the weapon and take a few steps back before she noticed. I fired several rounds into the computer before firing at her and running through a doorway."

Broyles had been staring unblinkingly at Olivia during her whole tale. At this point, his eyes seemed to spark with an almost fatherly pride at Olivia's resourcefulness. Her eyes had been threaded to her hands while she spoke, only breaking it to glance at Broyles when he'd ask a question. She still hadn't looked at Peter; he felt a bile-filled bubble rising in his throat as she detailed her horrible two-day absence.

"The warehouse is like a maze, so I managed to put some distance between us. I could hear her violently tearing through the building, so I tried to slip out as quietly as possible. I had used all the ammunition in my gun firing at her, but I kept it in my hand, so I could possibly bluff and escape, if needed. I managed to make it outside and ran behind the storage pod behind the warehouse. I heard her burst out of the building, screaming, really angry. I found a rusty chain and several nails and metal wiring in the junkyard by the pod. I hit the pod several times with the butt of the gun, trying to lure her towards me. I'm not sure how I did it, but she went into the pod thinking I was hiding inside of it. Once she was inside, I pulled the door closed and tried to fasten it shut with what I had."

This time, Peter's heart beat with a surge of pride. Olivia was brilliant for sure, but faced with death, she morphed into a bona fide genius. Peter grinned slightly to himself, despite the sick feeling that had been churning in his stomach this whole time.

"I heard you guys rustling around the building, so I hid in a large stack of old mack truck tires. I might have just been paranoid, but I thought you might be shape-shifters, as well. So I got out of sight. I didn't have a phone, so I couldn't call for help. The tires were worn, so I could see through cracks in the rubber. I saw Peter open the pod, and the shape-shifter looked like she was trying to kill him. He had dropped a gun, so I left my hiding place and crawled to the gun. Then I stood, and took aim before shooting her in the back of the head," she said.

Broyles turned his intense gaze to Peter, looking at him expectantly.

"I heard someone inside the pod, and I thought it was Olivia. So I opened it to let her out, and the shape-shifter charged. She was straddling me and crushing my throat before Olivia fired the gun at her. It was a hell of a shot," Peter said.

Olivia looked up at him briefly, before her eyes fell to her hands again. He might have imagined it, but he swore to himself that she had just grinned at his words. The need to pull her into a bone-breaking hug was knocking holes against his ribcage.

"That's pretty much it," Olivia said to the floor rather lamely.

"Alright," Broyles said as he stood. "Dunham, I don't want to see you in this building for at least a week. I'll call to check in with you daily. If I don't hear from you, be warned that I'll send a few agents to break down your door."

"Noted," she said with a poor attempt at a smile.

"Please look after yourself, Dunham. I can't afford to lose you. You're a vital part of this team."

"Thank you, sir."

Broyles stood, marking an official end to the conversation. He motioned for Peter to follow him. Broyles already had his hand on the door when Olivia's voice sliced through an uncomfortable silence.

"Sir, I think we should try to make Peter a little more comfortable."

"More comfortable?" Broyles said, a confused eyebrow reaching high on his hairless head. "Dunham, he's a scientific anomaly that was vomited into our universe by an unknown force that has a penchant for the color blue and shiny things. What are you suggesting? Where could we keep him other than here?

"A hotel, in another willing agent's home," Olivia said simply. "I'm not saying we should stop investigating his case, I'm just saying he seems more than compliant. If anything, he seems as desperate for answers as we are, if not more. This is the second case he has made a contribution to, a valuable one at that. I think he's proven his worth and I don't think he's going anywhere. We could give him a stipend and living allowance until we figure out what this whole thing is."

Peter's stomach bursted with butterflies at hearing this. Olivia still wasn't looking at him, her eyes were busy fighting with Broyles' for dominance. Her voice had transformed from blankly absent to assertively certain. From the look on her face, she would not accept any other scenario. It was a nod, a vote of faith from one of the two people who mattered most.

"Alright," Broyles said, as he turned to Peter. "We'll put you in an extended-stay room, for the time being. I'll look into a stipend tomorrow. Follow me, and we'll make arrangements. Dunham, wait here. I'll drive you home."

Before exiting, Peter turned for one last glance towards Olivia. Her eyes were alight, a faint hint of triumph upturning the corners of her lips. She was smiling at him.


	4. Umbra

**AN: Last chapter. Smut, as promised. Reviews are love!**

**Enjoy,**

**-Ari**

* * *

><p>The door clicked behind her, cracking the silence in her abandoned apartment. She slid the deadbolt into place and flattened her back against the door, barricading against the onslaught of anxiety threatening to march across her threshold.<p>

"Fuck me," she announced to the air, a phrase she couldn't say in company without getting herself into trouble.

By the time Broyles had gotten her home, it was past dark and the rim of her patience was impelled to the point of disintegration. She needed familiar territory and a whiskey-induced coma. She wanted 14 hours of dreamless sleep in favor of this beguiling cocktail of self-pity and paranoia. She felt suspended in this unwarranted space; her favorite drink could build a proverbial floor and walls. Any sense of security would be nirvana, even if it was brief.

She dropped her head and took in her appearance; her clothes barely covered her battered body, literally hanging on by threads. She tore herself off of the door, similarly ripping her clothes from herself as she walked purposefully into her living room. She stopped in front of the fireplace, a feature of her upstairs apartment she had always considered pretty useless until now. She stripped until she was only covered by bruises and coagulated blood.

After throwing the degenerated garb in the grate, she located a book of matches, a token from her last night out from what must have been years ago. She struck the match, watched the flame bloom like a drowning man sucking in air. She tossed match after lit match on top of her clothes in the fireplace until they were consumed in an impressive blaze. Although she stood there naked and beaten, burning the tokens of her two-day torture session made her feel like she was in control again. She had killed her captor, and now she incinerated her aberrant souvenirs. She couldn't burn the bruises, but these goddamned clothes would never see the light of day again.

She watched the blaze, imagining the smoke the fire pumped into the sky forming a dark cloud, a morbid shadow hanging over her head. She wondered to herself how long it would take to fade.

She must have stood there for hours, the impulse becoming less satisfying as the fire grew feebler. She had ripped every match from the book, cremating her clothes until they were reduced to powder. Her sense of recompense died with the flames.

She moved, almost unconsciously, to her bathroom, a tomb of white tile and marble for this oppressive exposure. She ignored the mirror; she'd deal with her reflection once she chipped all of the bloody monuments off of her skin. She cranked the hot water past the point of tolerance, let the scalding sensation rip away her top layer of skin cells, praying this would somehow beat the bruises into submission. The water ran brown as the dried blood melted from her hair and skin. She scrubbed until it hurt to run the cloth over her face. Her short fingernails pierced her damaged scalp as she excavated the dirt and gore from her tangled strands. When the stream ran clear, she finally stopped scraping herself clean and turned off the water. As she stepped out, she could see steam snaking quietly from her raw skin.

She dug through her dresser for anything that proffered normality and security. She found an old UNC Chapel Hill shirt and a tight pair of jeans she hadn't worn in public since her sophomore year. She decided a long time ago to keep them in the bottom of her drawer for housework and days that she didn't feel like facing the world. Normal, everyday, read-a-book or dye-your-hair clothes.

After coating herself in an enamel of familiarity, she sat on a bar stool in her kitchen with a cold glass of whiskey glued to her excessively clean hand. The drink carried a comfort from the back of her throat to the ends of her limbs after hours of crucifying her dead skin and burning her battle flags in effigy. The whiskey was just another nail in the fence she built around her consciousness.

After slamming back her third glass, she noticed her keys sitting innocently on the counter, almost winking at her, daring her. She stared for minutes, a contest she would never win. She pushed the bottle and glass aside and stood, shoving the keys in her pocket. Her phone was sealed somewhere in an evidence bag, and she wouldn't need her purse where she was going. She slipped her badge in behind the keys.

Sometime on the way home, between talking about Truss' idea about an enzyme that could possibly kill the shape-shifters and insisting that she not leave her apartment for an entire week, Broyles had mentioned that Peter was staying at an extended-stay Marriott about a mile away from the Government Center. She couldn't tell if it was the whiskey or an actual sane sense of certainty that kept her driving, all she knew is that she wanted to see his face.

At the front desk, she had finagled what room he was staying in from the clerk with her FBI badge. The girl, young and probably in college, looked uncertainly at Olivia in her faded blue college t-shirt and tight jeans before handing over the information. She tried to hid the ligature mark on her neck by smoothing her hair down.

"I can't say, but it's important," was all she told the clerk when asked why she needed to know.

She felt a constricting unease rise in her throat as the elevator doors closed around her, a newfound claustrophobia had her foot bouncing impatiently to reach the eleventh floor. When out of the elevator, she followed the signs to his room at the far end of the hallway.

1167.

She put curled fist on the hard wood, listening before knocking. She could hear the faint murmurs of an ignored television. She swore she could hear a heavy sigh that belonged to Peter from behind the door.

She knocked softly, a swell of trepidation expanding in her chest. Peter's face appeared in the crack, his eyebrows retreating higher as he opened the door wider.

"Olivia," he said, standing aside and waving her in. She smiled gratefully as she strode past him. She turned to find him surveying her, the concern knitting his brow together contradicting the wide expanse of his pupils.

"I'm sorry, I know it's late. It was like a slow torture locking myself in my apartment-"

"Don't," he said, holding up a hand to silence her. "Don't apologize."

He stepped toward her, reaching out to drag her hair behind her ear with his fingers. His eyes dropped to her neck, the pattern of bruises obnoxiously dark against her pale skin.

"Damn, 'Livia," he said in a low whisper that made her skin ignite. He ran a thumb tenderly over the mark running around her neck. She felt something below her stomach lurch.

"I've had worse," she managed, attempting a smile. His eyes snapped onto hers, deep and working.

"I hate that," he said, thumbing her jawline.

He pulled her in, tilting her head as his lips found hers, hungry but gentle. Feeling his tongue slide around hers inspired a sense of urgency for Olivia, tugging on his collar. He responded with hands on her hips, fingers curling around the curves and smoothing his thumbs over the bones rising above the waistline of her jeans.

His fingers slid gently under the hem of her shirt, trailing her sides with his hands and ribbing the cloth. She hummed against his lips from somewhere deep in her throat, and Peter felt an erection surge to life in his boxers. Peter ground his hips into hers with an aching restraint, desperate to feel her but acutely aware of her injuries.

When she moaned again, it sliced through any hesitant threads that might have held him back. He scooped her up by the thighs as they retreated further into the room. The back of Peter's knees found the hotel bed, with Olivia falling on his lap to straddle him. She hooked her fingers under the hem of his shirt, breaking the kiss to pull it over her head. Peter spread his hand in the small of her back and kissed her again, arousingly aware that she was braless as he pressed her to his bare chest.

Olivia circled her hips into his, making a low rumble escape Peter's throat. He tangled his fingers in her hair and tilted her neck gently, kissing and sucking an inch below her ear.

"Peter..." she sighed, bucking against the wet pressure on her neck.

Peter slid his hands up her sides, bringing her shirt with her. His eyes threw themselves wide open at seeing the scattered bruises and gashes littering her torso. An indignant sort of worry worked itself into every line of his face, as he smoothed his hands over her battered skin.

For the first time, Olivia betrayed a self consciousness about her injuries, hanging her hands on her shoulders to shield her bare chest from view.

"I'm a little beat up," she said. Peter's eyes snapped up from their investigation of the sad story of her body.

"No," he said, putting both hands around her face. "You're beautiful."

He pulled her close and kissed her fervently and Olivia abandoned her bashfulness, melting against him. He wrapped an arm around her back and maneuvered until she was under him. While he slipped a finger under her pants to undo her jeans, Olivia ran fingers through Peter's short hair. As he shifted her pants slowly down her smooth legs, he trailed his lips and tongue down her neck and torso. She arched her back as he lightly bit her nipple and teased it with his tongue, while swirled his index finger over the other.

After shaking his pants off, Peter slid her underwear down and lightly rubbed her clit with his thumb. Olivia began pumping his erection with her hand, making him groan painfully.

"Fuck, 'Liv."

Olivia responded by lightly biting his earlobe and treating his nutsack like a pair of Chinese exercise balls.

Peter abruptly flipped her over, making her yelp as he hooked his forearm around her hipbones to pull her to her knees, pressing his relentlessly hard dick into her ass cheeks. Her back was flush against his, his mouth right over her ear.

"You're teasing me," he said in a playfully accusing voice, its huskiness causing pleasure to pool under her belly. "I don't want to hurt you."

"Maybe I want you to."

Olivia screamed in gratification as Peter thrust himself forcefully into her, her tight folds stretching around him. He began a slow, tormenting pace, pulling it out to the tip before dipping back in at an agonizingly unhurried speed. He kept one hand on her hip, fingers digging into the bone, while the other tortured her nipples.

"Oh, god," Olivia moaned. "Peter, please."

He began to pump into her a little faster, pulling her tight to him. Olivia's orgasm began to build in waves as he quickened his pace. She pushed her hips back into him every time he slammed forward.

"Harder," she breathed. "Please."

It took all of Peter's self control not to spill inside of her as he pistoned on, scrotum slapping against her moisture, sucking and biting where her neck and shoulder met. Olivia heaved gutturally, like a traffic sign to an oncoming climax. Peter grabbed her chin and moved her lips close to his, kissing her almost savagely. Her muscles spasmed around him, a tantalizing warmth flooded around his member as she whimpered, the blissful wave rolling through her.

Olivia, with a gymnast-like grace, turned against him and pushed him onto his back. His eyes were wide in amazement as she slid back on his erection, betraying a sharp intake of air as her warmth surrounded him again. He surrounded her small hips again with his hands as she slowly began to grind and buck into him, his own hips rising each time she came down against him.

She arched her back as she rolled into him, building another orgasm as the pace quickened again. Before long, Olivia was screaming once more in pleasure.

"Holy fuck," he groaned as he watched her come undone above him, once again feeling her come around his dick.

"Olivia," he groaned, as he pulled her flat against him, pumping into her as she continued to grind.

He moaned loudly as they bucked furiously, he could feel her body preparing to climax again, accompanied with her own blissful yelps. He tried to slow his pace until she could let go, but she continued to ride him like she would never see him again.

He grabbed her hair and pulled her into another passionate kiss, he felt himself surge inside her, as she peaked one last time. Their loud moans eventually quieted as their hips slowed to still.

She collapsed on top of him as he brought his arms around her. The weight of her warmed him from inside out.

"That'll never get old," she sighed, her head nestled on his shoulder. He smiled as he rested his chin against her forehead.

"I hope you mean more than the sex," he chuckled.

"Maybe," she smiled into his skin. "Do you?"

"More than anything else," he said, pulling her tight to him. The weight of her in his arms, and her deep breathing as she fell asleep lulled Peter into a gratified slumber.


End file.
